


idontwannabeyouanymore

by mashmash



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Angst, Mirrors, Other, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Songfic, i just want it to be here, idk why i posted this, kinda triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 14:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17225960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mashmash/pseuds/mashmash
Summary: tell the mirror what you know he's heard before





	idontwannabeyouanymore

**Author's Note:**

> this....this is random  
> i just didnt want this to stay in my wips  
> idk why i wrote this
> 
> uhhhhhhh enjoy?
> 
> <3

**_Don’t be that way_ **

**_Fall apart twice a day_ **

**_I just wish you could feel what you say_ **

 

Kihyun’s eyes fall on all the lines and curves of his body reflected on his full length wall mirror. There are faint fingerprint shaped stains all over the glass and just a small splotch of maskara on the upper corner, but he can’t be bothered to pay too much attention on these. Not when  _ this  _ is what he looks like. 

 

**_Show, never tell_ **

**_But I know you too well_ **

 

Bones are protruding under his pale skin, cheekbones making his face sharp looking and cage-like ribcage almost too evident under his pearly white thin skin, trapping his lungs which blow out all the air inside them in a prolonged sigh. He runs his fingers over the thick bones, feeling each and every one of them and the dips between them, until he reaches the plump skin of his stomach. His chest rises and falls in another sigh.

 

**_Kind of mood that you wish you could sell_ **

 

_ Too  _ meaty.  _ Too  _ much skin. The contrast between the sturdy feeling of his bones and the soft, bouncy texture of his abdomen makes his face scrunch in disgust.

 

**_Hands, getting cold_ **

**_Losing feelings, getting old_ **

 

He dips his fingers in, pressing the skin, pinching the fat, making it red. He sucks his stomach in, as much as he can, but the bouncy skin still stays there despite how much he wants it gone. He releases the air fiercely, almost like a wheeze, and the skin takes its original shape again, round and  _ fat. _

 

He skipped dinner, yet, he’s still like this. He skipped today, yesterday and the day before, but the damn skin is stubborn. Wishes to stay round and meaty. Selfish. He’s the owner of this body and yet, he can’t seem to make it obey him like he wants it to. 

 

**_Was I made from a broken mold?_ **

 

He tears his eyes off this ugly sight and he tries to find something to hold on to, to make him feel better than this damn patch of fat made him feel. They fall on his legs. 

 

Smooth, shaved legs. Slender, short,  _ weak.  _ The thigh muscles under the leg holes of his black underwear are almost nonexistent, the defined lines he wishes to see nowhere to be found. The gap between his legs is threatening to close even more, just small chasms between the upper part of his thighs and his knees keeping his legs apart. The displeased scrunch remains plastered on his face. 

 

He sees bones, but he also sees  _ too  _ much skin. He sees skin, but he doesn’t see  _ muscles.  _ He can only see rivers of green veins adorning his whole body, his marble like skin allowing them to be visible and almost blue, royal like. He takes that as a sign of weakness. Even the color of his skin is too weak. 

 

**_Hurt, I can’t shake_ **

**_We’ve made every mistake_ **

 

He tries to keep his eyes off the bony parts of his arms, his flimsy elbows and wrists, because he can feel them weak, he doesn’t need to check. He never needs to check, because he knows, but he always does anyways. 

 

**_Only you know the way that I break_ **

 

He always checks until his eyes are filled with tears, until the blur blocks his vision, until he can’t see what he hates anymore. The corners of his mouth always lift up when he can’t, because he hates it. He hates every inch of it. It’s dirty and unwanted. He scratches on his skin, wishing it will give away, revealing what he wants to see.

 

**_If teardrops could be bottled_ **

**_There’d be swimming pools filled by models_ **

**_Told a tight dress is what makes you a whore_ **

 

In the blur his tears create, he can see it. His mind conjures what he wants to be, the lines finally making up something beautiful. Something ideal. He loves it. 

 

**_If “I love you” was a promise_ **

**_Would you break it, if you’re honest_ **

 

The tears run on his cheeks and fall on the carpeted floor, salty beads darkening the thin fabric, but nothing’s new. The hateful image returns, and his eyes burn holes in it.

 

**_Tell the mirror what you know he’s heard before_ ** _.  _

 

_ “ _ I don’t wanna be you, anymore.” 

 

The voice comes out raspy, breathy, without power, but full of hate. His tone drips with it, with despise, and he wishes his reflection would falter out of fear, giving its place to what he wishes he would be, what he tries to become but fails miserably. 

 

He walks away from the stained mirror, making a mental note to clean it before he falls on his bed, his stomach growling in hunger. 

 

Maybe, just maybe, if he wipes it clean, his ideal self will come to light for real. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me @mashirakos on twt!


End file.
